1. Like an untamed she-camel released,
It lingered long in the pots, aged.

2. Nothing remains of it but its color,
And the lingering fragrance it never lost.

3. As if a phantom near its cup
Beats gently if gazed at not.

4. If it moves, you'd say a mirage slipped
Along the side of the cup, or less.

5. Named, yet in reality it has no existence
That points to it in certainty.

6. If not for its smell that indicates it,
It would be lost, but it refused to be lost.

7. You behold it in imagination, not with the eye,
And drink it through words, not through action.

8. Smelling it was enough to intoxicate me,
And I was happy shedding the garments of ants.